On the ride down from the cliffs, surrounded by cheerful vacationers, I must’ve been the only one with a sour expression.
“Last night you said Reina was your sister. You meant real sister, right?”
“Yup. No half, no adopted. Same mother, same father. She’s older than me by about ten years. Moved out when she was fourteen to model in Europe. So yeah, she was out of my life for a while.”
And yet you two seem exactly alike.
“But we reunited when she was twenty-five,” he went on. “She’d had her fun overseas and came back to make her way in Japan.”
Then he turned to me. The smile that usually screamed happy-go-lucky twisted into something else. His eyes darkened right in front of me.
“That’s when we really connected and got to know each other.”
The words dropped like a stone.
We descended toward the lagoon, the water gleaming brighter as we got closer. White egrets lifted off the shore. A kingfisher dove, striking the surface and vanishing. Seagulls cried overhead, their calls mixing with faint music drifting from the arena.
Up close, the lagoon shimmered like liquid glass, ringed by palms swaying in the breeze. For a moment, it felt like paradise. But I knew better. This place wasn’t built for peace.
Just then, my eye caught something at the center of the lagoon. Rising from the water was an enormous stone sculpture—two massive knives with real flames twisting up from their blades.
On the far side of the lagoon, I spotted a small, nondescript building tucked against the trees. I hadn’t noticed it from the top. It looked empty, deserted.
“What’s that building back there?”
“Admin,” Ginji said simply, eyes still forward. And he left it at that.
I made a mental note. If he didn’t go into detail, it meant it was important.
We rounded the lagoon, the cart hugging the path along its edge. Up ahead, a sprawling building came into view—whitewashed walls, terra-cotta roof tiles, balconies draped in bougainvillea. It looked like it belonged on the coast of Spain, not a volcanic island off Japan.
Every other cart seemed to be heading the same way.
“So that’s where everyone stays for the festival?” I asked.
“Most guests do. Behind it are private villas for the VIPs.”
“Oooh, VIPs. Who would’ve thought.” I rolled my eyes.
I couldn’t believe it—VIPs, as if this were some kind of high-end resort. People actually paid a premium to be here. I didn’t get it at all.
“So with all the kids I’m seeing here, I take it the festival’s family-friendly?”
“It’s not Disneyland,” Ginji said with a grin, “but I like to think it’s just as thrilling.”
He drove us down a path that gave me a clearer view of the villas, and I had to admit—they looked pretty swanky.
“Each one has its own saltwater pool,” he said. “Only the best at Nokoribi.”
We cut through a small thicket. Guests walked along the path and between the trees, all streaming the same way. When we came out the other side, my jaw dropped.
There it was, rising from the ground with a presence that stole my breath—the arena.
It was even larger than it had looked from the cliffs. The outer wall soared high, a fusion of brushed steel and glass that gleamed under the sun. Rows of arches wrapped its circumference, stacked one above another in precise symmetry, drawing the eye upward. Balconies jutted from the upper tiers, draped with crimson-and-gold flags snapping in the wind. Around it sprawled dozens of tents, a pop-up village buzzing with life.
The crowds funneled toward a massive arch at the front. From a distance it looked ripped straight from ancient Rome: stone blocks, sweeping curves, a triumphal welcome. Tourists gasped, phones raised, snapping selfies as they passed beneath it.
The excitement was infectious. People cheered as they neared the entrance, voices rolling with the steady thump of drums echoing from somewhere inside.
